


Arrangement

by moonblossom



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Blarney Poison Gardens, Dancing, First Kiss, Fluff, Friendship, Happy Sherlock, M/M, Negotiations, Open Relationship, Polyamory, Sad Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-10
Updated: 2014-01-10
Packaged: 2018-01-08 04:49:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1128528
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonblossom/pseuds/moonblossom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John and Sherlock leave town for a case not long after John's honeymoon. Things evolve.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Arrangement

**Author's Note:**

> Have some fluff! I needed some happy resolution after the end of The Sign of Three, and this is what happened.
> 
> ~~I've also slipped a particularly sneaky and indirect reference to myself into this story - first person to find it and point it out in the comments gets a ficlet of their prompting ;)~~   
> [MidCenturyMorbid guessed correctly!](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1128528/comments/5742610)

It's too early. The bright light of morning is highlighting John's empty chair. There's something wrong with the sofa cushions. The middle back one is upside-down and it's throwing Sherlock off. Even the furniture seems intentionally loathsome right now. He's been staring intently at the ceiling for over an hour when his phone chimes. John and Mary's flight has landed then. The first flight in from Madrid. Twenty minutes to de-board, estimate nearly an hour for Customs -- all the jumbo jets full of awful tourists from awful tropical places are likely to be landing around now and clogging the queue -- perhaps another half hour to collect their luggage and drop it off at their flat before coming back home.

No, Sherlock shakes his head. Before coming _here_. It's not home any more, not to John. And at least two hours before he sees them. Why hasn't Lestrade called with some sort of diversion yet? He must still be bitter about being left out of the stag do. Spiteful little man.

Sherlock's halfway through a protracted, theatrical sigh when he gives up. What's the point if there's no audience? He rolls onto his side, face burrowed into the sofa cushions, and closes his eyes. Not to sleep, of course not. Just easier to ignore everything this way.

***

It's the noise that wakes him. Uneven rattling and thumping, punctuated by Mary's contagious giggle. Two large suitcases. Mary's has a faulty wheel. John's murmur, likely offering to take it. She's already got the smaller one -- the carry-on, most likely. No way a man like John Watson would make his pregnant wife carry a large valise. But there's another noise Sherlock can't quite identify. The muffled rustle of canvas. A duffel? He doesn’t remember them packing a third bag. Frowning, he stands up and runs his hands through his hair.

The moment they're through the door, Sherlock finds himself engulfed in a warm, cloying hug that smells of perfume and sun cream and non-alcoholic champagne and the slightly stale smell of an aeroplane cabin. Ever since the hug at the reception, John's been a lot more physically demonstrative, and Mary had never shied away from touching Sherlock at all. It's not entirely unwelcome.

They're speaking over each other, giddy with nerves and fatigue, and Sherlock's disoriented and overwhelmed, only absorbing snippets of it.

"queue at Customs--" "--pregnant and airsick--" "--she's fine now" "--couldn't wait--" "--missed you".

Sherlock squeezes back, awkwardly, and weighs his options in his head. _I missed you too_ or _Oh, were you gone? I hadn't noticed_. Before he has a chance to decide, Mary stretches up on her toes, kisses his forehead lightly, and chuckles.

"Don't even think of claiming you didn't notice we were gone, you ridiculous fibber."

Unseated and disoriented, Sherlock just scowls up at them. He takes a moment to study their faces. Tired, content, lightly tanned. They'd not gone far, off to the continent for a quick hop across parts of southern France and Italy before finishing up in Spain. John's put on three pounds; he's always had a weak spot for carbs. Too much pasta, too much paella. Mary's put on a bit more, but all things considered that's normal. Good, even.

He catches John's eye and smiles hesitantly. "Welcome back, all of you."

In unison, the three of them fall onto the sofa, Sherlock in the middle. He can think of worse places to be. John pats his knee fondly but doesn't remove the hand when it stops, and Mary squeezes his arm.

"You would have enjoyed it, Sherlock. We took plenty of photos of ridiculous-looking tourists for you to deduce next time you're bored." John's voice is teasing and warm and Sherlock hates to admit how much he's missed it.

Mary groans and props her feet on the coffee table. Her ankles are swollen -- normal side effects of both pregnancy and air travel, but it alarms Sherlock to note how concerned he is about it.

"I believe Mrs. Hudson has one of those fizzing foot-bath... things. I should ask her for it." He leans forward and gently pats her calf, and John squeezes his knee again, as if in acknowledgement.

The look on Mary's face when she turns to him is hard to place. Rather than say anything, she leans over to John.

"Go on then, tell him! The car's waiting."

Tell him what? Sherlock raises an eyebrow. John's cheeks are flushed with enthusiasm, deep blue eyes glittering.

"Oh, Sherlock. It's brilliant. While we were at Heathrow, I got an email from a potential client and then Mary found this brochure..."

"You're... leaving again? So soon?" Sherlock isn't certain he's ready to go another fortnight without someone to ~~talk at~~. Talk to. _Talk with_.

"No, you git. Mary's tuckered out. You and I. You're clearly going stir-crazy, and I think she needs some peace and quiet." Sherlock's eyes drift from John's face to the flier, a glossy advert for some dull-looking stone castle. Why does John seem to assume Sherlock would be excited by the prospect of more touristy claptrap?

"Is it prudent to leave you alone?" Sherlock shifts his gaze to Mary.

Mary waves her hand dismissively in a gesture so familiar that it takes Sherlock a moment to realise she's imitating him. He rolls his eyes, but can't quite hide the chuckle reverberating in his chest.

"I'll be fine. Janine's offered to keep an eye on me, and Mrs. Hudson could probably use some company. Someone who isn't destroying things!” She interrupts herself before Sherlock can point out he’s been here the entire time. “It should only take you boys a couple of days. While you're on the plane, I'll call around and find you two a hotel. Now for the love of god, Sherlock, go get dressed. John, grab the duffel and go wait in the car."

Sherlock looks down at himself, having somehow entirely forgotten he's been lounging about in his pyjamas and a dressing gown. He glances over at the olive drab canvas bag by the door, clearly the source of the unfamiliar noise from earlier. John must have transferred some of his more practical clothing into it in his haste to go on an adventure. Sherlock's heart swells as he darts into his room.

When he comes back out, Mary's standing in the hallway, her face gentle and pensive.

"It's amazing, you know. How much he loves you."

"Clearly not as much as he loves you." Sherlock scowls internally. He needs to keep his cards closer to his chest, and he hadn't meant to sound quite so bitter. But Mary just smiles, reaching up to adjust the collar of his shirt.

"Sometimes I'm not sure about that. I've already spoken to John, but I need to tell you too. Whatever happens, you have my blessing. We'll work this all out."

How is it that this little slip of a woman -- even more unassuming than John, really -- consistently manages to confuse and confound him. And, more importantly, why doesn't he _mind_? He's got no idea what she's going on about. Her blessing? Why would he need it? He stares blankly at her for a moment and she reaches up and pats his cheek.

"Go on, then. Or the car will leave without you. There's a mystery to solve!"

***

The car ride is brief and nearly silent. John looks quietly content, humming internally with some smug knowledge that irritates Sherlock, makes the back of his neck itch. John is tanned, lightly, from the Sex Holiday, and it reminds Sherlock of how he'd looked when they first met. But happier now than then. Much happier.

He's about to ask John where exactly they're headed, and more importantly, _why_ , when the car pulls into one of the drop-off points at Gatwick. Relatively local then, but John is thrifty and would have taken a bus or train if it had been expedient. Somewhere in Ireland seems most likely.

Once at the airport, John starts in with an incessant stream of mindless chatter. Sherlock listens with one ear, the sound of John's voice soothing and grounding but not particularly interesting right now. The check-in confirms Sherlock's suspicion as the blandly-smiling woman behind the counter hands him a boarding pass for the upcoming 2pm flight to Cork.

Once inside the terminal, John procures two particularly memorable sandwiches. Memorable only in their awfulness. Sherlock eats his mostly to please John, but also partially because he can't quite remember when the last time he ate was. Surely Mrs. Hudson fed him something yesterday.

"So, did you do anything interesting while we were gone?"

Blinking, Sherlock turns to stare at John. "Small talk, John? Really? I thought we were past all that now. If you've turned into one of those people, I'll have to find a new best friend."

John laughs, the corners of his eyes crinkling merrily in a way that hurts Sherlock deep in his chest. "Thought I'd try it on for size. Mary was chatting everyone up at the resort. It's hard not to like her, isn't it?"

And he's right. Sherlock had been fully prepared for yet another dull, interchangeable woman in John's life. But Mary had deftly wound the both of them around her little fingers. "She is rather exceptional. You do seem to enjoy surrounding yourself with people who make you look good."

Playfully, John chuckles and grips Sherlock's knee, squeezing lightly. There's a strange electricity in the air and Sherlock doesn't know quite what to say, what to do. He's saved by the announcement that it's their turn to board, and the conversation dies organically as they scramble to grab their carry-ons and electronics.

***

"So, the case then?" The plane has levelled out, the look of anxiety has dissipated from John's face, and they have just over an hour until they land. Sherlock's been as patient as possible.

John digs out his mobile to show Sherlock, but a brief, irritated glance from the flight attendant forces him to shove it sheepishly back into his pocket without ever having turned it on. He shifts in his seat to face Sherlock.

"Blarney Castle. You ever been?"

The name sets off a vague memory in the back of Sherlock's head. "The one with the silly, unhygienic tradition with that hunk of rock?"

John laughs. Sherlock sits on his hands, fighting the urge to reach out and touch John's warm, crinkled cheek.

"That's rich, coming from a man who recently put an eyeball in his tea. But yes, that's the one. Surprised you remembered that."

Sherlock is, too, but he refuses to admit it. There's something more interesting about that place, but it's buried in his head, under layers of John, piles of wedding planning detritus. The Mind Palace needs a good housekeeping.

Unruffled by Sherlock's lack of a reply, John ploughs on. "One of the guides inside the palace started behaving erratically, and then dropped dead of cardiac failure."

"Boring. Why would they contact us instead of the police?"

"Mm, I agree, it sounds like a pretty clear-cut case of poisoning. I think they wanted it confirmed discreetly before going to the police, so as not to draw any negative media attention to a well-established tourist attraction."

Sherlock tilts his head, studying John, who is still smiling like the cat who ate the canary. "Why drag me out then?"

"Because I suspect it's how he was poisoned that I think you'll be interested in. I figured we can go in, confirm the hypothesis and solve the case, and get in a bit of sightseeing, all at once."

"You think I care about some dirty rock in a draughty castle?"

That infuriating twinkle is back in John's eye. Sherlock wants to kiss it away. No he doesn't.

"No, I think you'll want to know where the poison came from."

Suddenly, it hits Sherlock, a memory buried deep in his head. His eyes widen, and he gasps, loudly enough that the flight attendant comes rushing over. He shoos her away impatiently, after politely informing her that she'd been adopted.

"The poison gardens! Oh, John. You are brilliant."

John's face falls slightly. "You've been then?"

"No, no." Sherlock fidgets impatiently. "I've been meaning to for a long time now, but I keep getting sidetracked."

John reaches over and squeezes Sherlock's hand comfortingly. "I'm glad to hear that. We can experience it together. Now, if you don't mind, I'd like to nap a bit." He closes his eyes and shifts in his seat, head settling on Sherlock's shoulder. He doesn’t mind. He doesn't mind at all.

***

They hire a car directly from the airport to the Castle, and Sherlock is thankful he packed only a small bag. They are greeted by an overly officious gentleman with a moustache that rivals John's temporary insanity. He's obsequious and oily, fawning over them while summarising the case. John was right -- they're trying to avoid media attention and wanted confirmation from _that famous detective_ before calling the police. Sherlock is tempted to report him for obstruction, but he keeps his mouth shut.

Once presented with the body, it becomes apparent that their assumptions were correct; the case turns out to be relatively clear-cut and painfully banal. The guide had been trying to blackmail two of the women who worked in the employee kitchens. They'd been having an affair and were terrified of being caught. It was a simple matter of slipping a few datura seeds into the organic vegan option two days ago, knowing he was the only employee on shift who ever chose it.

Sherlock finds incriminating texts on the tour guide's phone. He was an idiot not to delete them immediately. When confronted about the ease of access to the poison and the motive, the two women confess and willingly offer to turn themselves in. All in all, less than half an hour's work, and it's barely early evening.

"Will we head back to the airport, then?" Tentatively, Sherlock reaches out and places a hand on the small of John's back. It's novel, this strange open-ended permission to touch intimately. He's rather hoping John refuses, they still haven't been to the poison gardens and even though this isn't going to be a Sex Holiday, Sherlock is rather enjoying having John all to himself for a bit.

John turns and looks at him, half exasperated and half amused. "Sherlock, I've been on a plane for more hours today than I've been awake. Mary just texted me. She's found a hotel. Why don't we head back, order room service, crash out for the night, visit the gardens tomorrow, and take it easy for a bit?"

It takes a fair effort to prevent Sherlock from jumping for joy. Instead, he schools his face into neutral impassivity and nods at John. "That sounds reasonable."

***

The hotel proves to be a rather charming little inn less than two kilometres from the Castle. John is exhausted, clearly ready for some greasy food and bed, so Sherlock generously offers to check in. Gratefully, John sinks into an overstuffed chair in the lobby and rests his feet on their bags.

The man at the counter greets Sherlock warmly.

"Yes, there should be a reservation for tonight, and possibly tomorrow? John Watson and Sherlock Holmes?"

With a quick check in the log-book, he nods and rummages on the board at his back, handing Sherlock one large, old-fashioned key. He grins. "You'll like this one, it's got the king bed."

"And the key for Dr. Watson?"

The man looks confused for a moment. "He's with you, is he not?"

"Well," Sherlock blinks, swallowing his apprehension. "Surely this is the wrong room then? Not one with two beds?"

The charming, welcoming Irish manner of the innkeeper is quickly fading. He furrows his brow at Sherlock. "Son, all our rooms are single-bedded. This isn't the Fairmont."

"No, that won't do. This man recently got married. People will talk. Is there a cot?"

The innkeeper looks increasingly irritable, his professional veneer thinning -- he's exhausted, hates his job, two large dogs who regularly defecate on his favourite rug, unhappily married, having a fulfilling, long-term affair with an older woman – sighs in frustration.

"Sir, the reservation was very short notice. I explained to the woman over the phone that this was the only available option and she didn't seem remotely put out. Rather the opposite, in fact, she seemed quite amused. I remember, because it was a bit of an odd reaction."

"Well... fine then." Sherlock grabs the key, before remembering to mutter his thanks.

John's nodded off in the chair and Sherlock takes a moment to study his face, tanned glow, relaxed in sleep. His impatience gets the better of him though, and he grabs the bag out from under John's feet, jarring him awake.

"Come along, our room awaits."

"Room?" John mumbles, blearily. "Singular?"

"Yes, Mary booked us one room. One bed. Your wife must have trouble counting. Either that or the pregnancy-related memory issues have begun early. Now come."

***

When they finally make it into the hotel room, John throws himself onto the sofa and kicks off his shoes without undoing the laces. Sherlock cringes briefly and shuffles over to lean against the rolled arm, close to John but not _too_ close.

"Cheers, Sherlock." Unexpectedly for a small B&B, there's a small refrigerator under the console table, and John has managed to find a few bottles of beer. He tips one in mock-salute, holding the other out to Sherlock.

"Alcohol, John? Do you think that's a good idea, considering..."

"My stag do?" John giggles and Sherlock finds himself hypnotised by the jostle of his shoulders. Finds himself drawn to the sofa, throwing himself down next to John. The laughter is infectious.

"Just one beer each. No more," Sherlock says, unsure if he's trying to assure himself or John. He grabs the proffered bottle and takes a swig.

John nods and tips his bottle towards Sherlock's. "To boring cases and poison gardens!"

It's as good a toast as any, and Sherlock taps the neck of his bottle to John's. He has the inappropriately intimate thought that his saliva and John's are now mingled, something that has touched his lips connecting so forcefully with something that has touched John's. The realisation pains him.

For a moment, they are nearly still, drinking their beers together in perfect silence. It's John who breaks it. Not with words, as he is so fond of doing, but with music. There's a small clock radio at his elbow and John fumbles with it, hooking up his mobile and successfully managing to play his own music through the speakers -- a feat that astounds Sherlock, considering John's luddite predilections. He keeps the thought to himself.

The music is familiar, slow and sedate but oddly haunting. Sibelius' _Valse Triste_ , the Sad Waltz. An incongruous choice for John, who tends to favour more accessible and cheerful classical music. The notes weigh heavy on Sherlock's shoulders, and his fingers itch for his violin.

As he's studying John's face for some hint of an explanation, John smiles. It's a slow, sad smile that suits the slow, sad music.

"I never got to dance with you. You know, at the wedding."

Sherlock says nothing. Swallows heavily.

"I looked around for you."

"It would have been... inappropriate. Two men? Really, John." Sherlock aims for a scoffing tone, to mask his thoughts.

John shrugs, takes a large mouthful of his beer, as if for courage.

"You love to dance. Mary wanted to dance with you too, but she said I should have first dibs."

In one smooth movement, John is up off the sofa, holding a hand elegantly out to Sherlock. The look on John's face is hopeful and expectant, mirroring the feeling inside of Sherlock's chest. He gets up, slowly, trying not to betray his eagerness.

The music has picked up slightly, less sad now.

"Shall I lead?" John smirks, looking up at Sherlock through his gilded lashes. 

That suits Sherlock fine, just like all those times practicing back at Baker Street. Deftly, still allowing John to think he's leading, Sherlock guides them across the small open space between the sitting area and the huge, looming, solitary bed. The music picks up and slows, picks up and slows, waves crashing onto a beach. For a moment the world ceases to exist outside of this room. 

Allowing himself a moment of indulgence, Sherlock lets his cheek rest against the top of John's head and breathes deeply. John smells all wrong now. Lilac, gardenia. He's being frugal, using Mary's shampoo. He doesn't smell like Baker Street. Doesn't smell like home. Thankfully still an undercurrent of familiarity below it all, but muddied. And yet, Sherlock can't think of a single thing he'd rather smell right now.

As the music fades, John pulls back just enough to lean up and look Sherlock in the eye. Trying to give him some sort of signal, but Sherlock is overwhelmed, unable to read it. John closes his eyes, and oh, it would be so easy to reach out and kiss him for a fraction of a second. Blame it on clumsiness, blame it on awkwardness.

In the end, it's John who moves first. Eyes closed, he tilts forward and presses his lips -- dry, chapped, perfect -- against Sherlock's. Sherlock freezes. Doesn't move. Doesn't react. It must be the wrong thing to do because just as suddenly as it started, it has stopped. John isn't kissing Sherlock anymore and it's the most terrible thing.

Sherlock opens his eyes. Eyes he doesn't remember closing. John is looking at him, patient and serious. Waiting for him to speak.

"John." Sherlock stammers out. Or, well, he thinks he does. Probably. His heart's humming, thrumming, buzzing around in his chest. _Apis Mellifera_ trapped in a bell jar.

John pulls back further, eyes suddenly dark and downcast. "I'm... Sherlock, Christ. I'm sorry. I thought--"

Sherlock tries to form words, something to soothe John, to express his confusion. His tongue betrays him.

"I thought. All this time... You've looked. Fuck. Heartbroken."

Still, no words escape Sherlock.

"It was Mary, you know. She told me you loved me. I blurted your name out in my sleep at one point and she figured it all out."

"MARY!" Abruptly, Sherlock remembers why this is a terrible idea. "How could you do this to her?"

John blinks, and barks out a laugh. Relief, giddiness, clear on his face. At nearly the exact same moment, Sherlock's mobile buzzes.

* * *

_Sherlock,_  
 _I told you. You have my blessings. He's not doing anything I don't know about. Now stop waffling and snog my husband for me._  
 _< 3, Mary_

* * *

Sherlock stares at the phone. The light is harsh and painful in the dim of the room, but the words, the words. It's as if they're plastered all over the walls, floating in mid-air. It takes him a moment to realise that Mary's timing was oddly prescient and he writes it off as an uncanny coincidence. The universe must be more fond of them than he'd previously assumed. Either that or she and Mycroft have made some sort of professional arrangement, which is a horrifying thought.

"That her, then?" John smirks, peering at Sherlock's phone. Silently, Sherlock turns it to face John, the cool light of the screen setting his dark blue eyes gleaming.

"You... spoke about this? You've discussed this?"

"Yes, Sherlock. It's fine. It's all fine. It's up to you."

He stares at the mobile for another moment before throwing it pointedly onto the sofa. With both hands, he cups John's jaw, cradling his head like some fragile specimen, and pulls their lips together with more force and finesse than the first time. Tentatively, he parts his lips, runs his tongue along the seam between John's own.

Clearly this was the right thing to do; John lets out a quiet moan and opens his mouth in invitation as he wraps his arms around Sherlock's waist. John is almost unbearably warm now, so much warmer than when they were dancing, and it all seems to be concentrated on the inside of his mouth. He's smart and sharp with his tongue in a way that Sherlock can't hope to mimic, so instead he just lets John lead for once.

The kiss lasts forever, and it's not long enough. Eventually, they pull apart, gasping for air. John's eyes are wide, he's studying Sherlock as though he's some undiscovered wonder of the world. He reaches up, runs his fingers across Sherlock's fever-hot cheek. Sherlock's certain he can feel every ridge, every imperfection in John's skin. He gasps quietly.

"How did it take me so long?"

John's speaking in riddles again, so Sherlock doesn't bother to reply.

"To realise what I had, I mean. How did it take her to figure it all out for me?"

Sherlock swallows, his tongue thick and dry suddenly. "She is rather crafty. And surprisingly generous. I was led to believe that women didn't usually go for..." he gestures between them. "This sort of thing."

"She's full of surprises."

"Mmm. Now, as much as I am indebted to her cleverness and magnanimity, I would really prefer to be thinking about you right now."

Rather than reply, John leans forward again and buries his face in the curve of Sherlock's throat. Sherlock tightens his arms around John's shoulders, as though trying to erase any possible space between them. Everything about this moment is perfect.

That is, until John's stomach rumbles loudly.

Sheepishly, he pulls back and grins at Sherlock, who chuckles. John giggles back, and it's not long before the two of them are overcome with riotous, painful laughter. As one, they tumble onto the warm, welcoming bed.

"We're ridiculous," John coughs out between guffaws.

Privately, Sherlock is grateful for the respite. As perfect as the moment was, he's not entirely sure where things were leading, or whether he's ready for any of it. John, always more perceptive than he looks, rests his head against Sherlock's shoulder and pats his knee soothingly.

"I haven't eaten since the flight this morning. I pitched that bloody awful sandwich at Gatwick. What do you say we order in some takeaway, have them bring it up here, and eat it in bed. And then we can get into bed..."

Sherlock's unsure expression must give him away, because John strokes his knee again, his hand never venturing further up his thigh.

"Just to sleep, you know. Maybe cuddle a bit, if you'd like? We don't have to do anything. Whatever you'd like. Not sure how much of this is actually new to you. And honestly, all of it's going to be new to me."

Sherlock's not opposed to... whatever John's got in mind. He just needs a bit of time to adjust to this new development.

"When did you say this room was booked until?" 

"Her text said two nights. We don't have to leave 'til the day after tomorrow."

Impulsively, still excited by the novelty of being able to do it, Sherlock turns and presses a kiss to John's temple.

"I think I would be quite alright with your plan then. On one condition."

John sits up and steps away from the bed to rummage for the brochure of delivery menus in the desk. Sherlock absolutely, positively does not pout. John finds his quarry, holding it out triumphantly and gesturing for Sherlock to continue.

"Tomorrow, after we have eaten and slept to your heart's content, we go to the Poison Gardens. And then we come back here and have ridiculous amounts of sex. If the first time does not go as planned, we'll merely try again."

John's splutter is priceless, and Sherlock's heart pounds in his chest. Pulse strong and fast, but even. Grinning, John throws himself back onto the bed and kisses Sherlock's cheek, sending a fresh wave of warmth through Sherlock's body.

"I think, Sherlock, that we have come to an arrangement."

**Author's Note:**

> Sibelius' _Valse Triste_ can be heard [here](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QnrGX8O6sN4)


End file.
